Rook told thirty grown men about fifty cents, a teddy bear, and a boy reading beside a silent bed.
Nobody made a joke.
Then he posted a blank calendar on the wall.
“Kid needs an adult every day,” he said. “Thirty days. Thirty names.”
Mason signed first.
I signed second.
Within four minutes, every square was filled.
The hospital did not welcome us.
One biker visiting a child could be explained. Thirty bikers rotating through a pediatric neurological ward looked like a security problem.
The administrator, Karen Lowe, met Rook in a conference room with two security officers. She spoke politely, which somehow made every refusal harder.
Volunteers needed background checks, health screenings, orientation, confidentiality training, and approval from Lucy’s legal guardians. The club could not simply walk into the hospital wearing patches.
Rook placed the calendar on the table.
“We’ll do the checks.”
“They can take weeks.”
